


swimming with the fish pond fish

by februyuri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Curtain Fic, Fix-It, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Season/Series 15, Trans Dean Winchester, dean’s internalized homophobia vs dean’s desire to be told that he is loved – fight!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/februyuri/pseuds/februyuri
Summary: Some time between Dean bleeding out on a makeshift hook in a barn in Ohio and Sam making marshmallows on his funeral pyre, Dean was brought back to life. By Castiel. Again. Dean agreed to it if only to give Jack time to work out the glitches up top. So, now Dean’s back in the land of the living and things are ... actually good, for once.Or, as good as they can be when demons are attacking Earth, Dean’s failing to get over why he died in the first place, and Cas is suddenly, inexplicably taking every opportunity to casually tell Dean that he loves him.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, what started as a post-s15e18 “I wish Cas would’ve said he loves Dean more often and when they weren’t in life-or-death situations bc it would be funny/sweet to watch Dean have to deal with how much Cas loves him” thought process morphed into a post-s15e20 treatise about Dean’s relationship to Cas, to men, to sex, and also a fix-it-fic for the show finale, etc. This story was meant to be much shorter but – No Ragrats! I enjoyed writing it, hopefully people will enjoy reading it :>
> 
> Thanks to https://carrotlesbian.tumblr.com/ for listening to me brainstorm and for kicking this fic up a notch by suggesting that it take place post-love confession. And thanks to https://magnusthebeefcake.tumblr.com/ for editing :D
> 
> The title is from a song by darlingside.
> 
> CW: suicide mention/ideation, depressive thoughts, sex (totally consensual, and there’s no penetration, but at one point Dean kind of gets in his own head about what he’s doing because of past experiences which imply sex work and also worries that he’s coerced Cas into it because Cas is an angel), alcohol, death/grief. I swear this is mostly a light fic haha.

Dean’s not ready.

His alarm wakes him and in that mid-moment between dream and consciousness, he forces himself to let go of his gun so that he can fumble with his phone.

Once the room is quiet again, he heaves a big, wet sigh into his pillow.

_Christ._

They have to be on the road in thirty minutes. Which is hell. Dean understood what he was signing up for nine p.m. yesterday. He was the one who said they’d have to leave at four o’clock to get to Winsted by check-in time, but he’s regretting it now.

Dean’s been waking up earlier and earlier as the years go by for some reason – but not _this_ damn early.

Dimly, he grumbles to himself about why they need to rush now, why _he_ needs to rush. It was his idea after all.

The rumble of Cas’s voice greets Dean in the kitchen, warm and familiar. “Here,” he says, and presses a warm mug into Dean’s waiting grasp. “I made you coffee.”

Like lightning before thunder, the caffeine hits Dean’s nose and then the steam, cloying and inviting. This, and Cas’s indulgent smile, is paradise first thing in the morning.

“Coffee,” Dean agrees, squinting blearily at the cup. His tongue is thick in his mouth, and the coffee has cooled enough that it stops just short from scalding him with this first gulp.

“Thanks, Cas.”

Dean’s gonna need to down this now to minimize rest stops down the line. He brings the rest of the coffee to his lips, taking in a deep whiff of the bitter caffeine, the nutty sweetness of the oils. Cas insists on bringing the good stuff with them, and it’s always worth it.

“Of course,” Cas says, smiling. “I love you.”

Dean nearly bites through the ceramic.

Before Dean can say anything, Cas has already moved away down the kitchen to wash out his own mug in the sink.

“I’ll bring the bags down to the car,” he tells Dean, jangling the keys to the Impala for Dean to see, glinting like silver in the morning light.

“I?” Dean replies. His lips are tingling.

Cas nods. “Get dressed. I’ll get the engine warmed up.”

Dean nods too.

He watches Cas walk down the stairs, his eyes wide and vision sharp.

_What?_

Awake and aware, but still mentally sluggish, Dean finishes off his coffee in three gulps and rinses the mug in the sink. Did Cas really just say ...

In the bathroom, he brushes the grime off his teeth and goes over what had just happened.

Like an interview.

_What did you see? What’s the last thing you remember? No, no, trust me – whatever you tell us, we’re not gonna believe you’re crazy._

Except he is. He squints with bloodshot eyes at his blurry reflection, flecked and stained in the motel mirror. There’s no way Cas said that.

Sure, Cas is a touchy-feely guy, relatively, as far as angels can get, but this? Right now? Again? _‘I love you’s’_ are reserved for death’s door, for the aftermath of shootouts, for the worst days of Dean’s life. Not random Tuesday mornings. Did Cas put something in the coffee? Is Dean dying?

And he’s an _angel_. Dean’s never known one of them to ... be this casual about it. They’re not typically lovey-dovey and then here’s _Cas_ handing Dean a cup of morning joe like he’s some doting 50s sitcom wife. For an angel, to a _human_ , that move would be embarrassing, degrading. Dean changes into clothes Cas laid out for him on the second bed and feels a sympathetic flush light up his neck. _Embarrassing_.

By the time Dean gets down the stairs, teeth cleaned, hair combed, chutes dropped, he finds Cas sitting patiently in the passenger’s seat of the Impala.

The car has been warmed toasty and inviting, especially contrasted against the icy four a.m. air outside. Cas has got some Don MacLean gently mumbling through the speakers, barely louder than the buzz of the heater. When Dean gets in the front seat, he nearly closes the door on his jacket, too focused on rubbing his chilly hands together so that he doesn’t have to look at his best friend sitting by his side.

“Did you return the keys to the front desk?” Cas asks.

Dean glances over at him. The sun won’t rise for a few more hours, and Cas is lit sallow by the pale fluorescent lights propped up on the building. He looks a little tired, too, or maybe just older. Other than that, he’s the same old Cas.

“Yeah. We good to go?” Dean ventures, finding the key in the ignition.

Cas nods an affirmative, leaning back and getting comfortable again.

Dean puts a hand on the back of Cas’s seat as he reverses out of the motel’s parking lot. He deliberates that there’s no way Cas actually said anything; that Dean just needs to get more sleep.

*

But, Dean’s _still_ kind of a mess about it hours later.

They finish the hunt quick enough. It was essentially an exorcism. There are rumblings in Hell, issues with management, so demons are spilling upwards in droves like it’s Walmart on Boxing Day. Dean’s kind of glad to be back, at least to lighten the load on other hunters, and that Cas is willing to help out certainly doesn’t hurt.

They dress up like Catholic priests, and Dean does his best to look half-way religious. “Padre,” he snickers when he sees Cas, who only rolls his eyes in response.

Their robes are Party City specials and, as much as Dean laughs, the truth is Cas wears devoutness as well as he wears a doctor’s coat, or a cowboy hat, and he’s the only reason the family trusts their story.

Dean approaches them with some trepidation; there’s always the chance that the families who think their kid is possessed are the problem, but then – families like that usually don’t reach out along the grapevine. And they look afraid, not self-pitying.

Dean lets Cas do most of the talking. He catches a few words here and there, Cas mumbling, voice low, in what sounds to Dean like perfect Spanish. “Gracias por,” _something, something_ , “a su casa.” The family buys it, too.

The mother rambles tearfully, says something about their daughter, and points her arm towards the dimly lit staircase at the end of the hallway, fear and pain bright in her eyes.

Cas murmurs something else in Spanish, and it comes out half-concerned half-comforting. He nods to Dean, face tight with a grave expression, and starts making his way upstairs. Dean tosses a quick “ _Gracias_ ,” behind them to mom and pop, standing together in the kitchen, hands wringing together with concern. It’s been a long time since Dean’s done something like this.

Upstairs, Cas holds the door open, and behind it is a college-aged girl tied to her bed with rope, and a demon inside her tied to the bedroom with the crosses that decorate just about every surface. Catholic households.

“Dean Winchester,” the demon speaks up the moment he steps into the room, leisurely tasting out every single world. “As I live and breathe. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Sorry, don’t do autographs.” His skin starts to itch and crawl.

Dean’s brains are still a bit scrambled from the morning and the long drive that followed, and that the demon knows him by name sets him on edge. Dean knows logically he is a big name, but it still unnerves him when he’s recognized, and there’s something especially disturbing about this demon.

“What? You don’t remember me?” the demon grins, smile unnaturally wide. She tilts her head to the side, dark hair pooling around one shoulder, and pouts with cracked lips. “You _tortured_ me, Dean.”

The air drains from the room.

“You stuck me with so many knives I looked like a pincushion.” The girl laughs, throwing her head back. “Ever since I got topside, I wondered if I’d ever see you again, get to _thank you_ for making me into the strong young woman I am today.” She raises an eyebrow, eyes coal tar black. “You here to finish the job?”

Dean must freeze, because Cas strides over to the bed and presses his hand to the little demon’s forehead, threatening.

“What are you doing here? _Why_ are you bothering this family?” Cas barks.

The demon giggles, nudges her face into Cas’s hand as though she doesn’t know he’s an angel. “It’s not _just me_ , Padre,” she sings, smirking. “Tons of us are having issues with the new management. Doesn’t matter what you do with me, you’ll be seeing us around. And plenty of us have a bone to pick with you, Dean. _Probably_ literally.”

“Dean, shut your eyes,” Cas snaps. And in the next moment the room lights up with that unearthly white glow.

With his new and improved Grace, Cas smokes the demon out easily. Dean’s worried for half a moment that Cas smoked the girl out as well, but Cas has got the magic touch since he came back from Heaven, from the Empty.

“Oh my god,” the girl on the bed whimpers. “He’s _gone_.”

She’s crying heavily, tears streaming down from both brown eyes and framing her face like a dam just gave. She breathes loudly, jarringly – choked and relieved, like she just swam to the surface of some strangling depths.

Half-ozone, half-sulfur, the cramped bedroom smells strongly chemical and wrong, it leaves Dean light-headed and weak-kneed. Cas reaches out to undo the ropes around the victim’s wrists. Dean’s instincts are sluggish, hands cold, it’s taking him too long to nudge his mind past what the demon just said to him. He’s lucky that Cas is here to pick up his slack.

“I’m sorry,” the girl says as Cas frees her, instinctively guilty.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Cas promises, a small reassuring smile in his voice.

Suddenly, he’s got a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and gives Dean a secure squeeze. Like smelling salts, Dean jolts back into the situation that they’re in.

Dean nods at the girl. It’s hard to look her in the eye. “C’mon,” he manages to grind out, ignoring the look of quiet concern in Cas’s eyes. “Let’s give your parents the good news.”

All in all, it was a success.

The family cries, group-hugs it out, sings a quick kumbaya, and the best part is no one had to die. Dean didn’t even need to crack out any Latin. It’s almost too easy, and then he and Cas are on the road again, flying home.

Back in the car, Cas tries to talk to Dean. “What the demon said,” he starts.

“Whatever,” Dean interrupts, as quickly as he can manage. “Demons lie. That’s what they do.” Dean would know.

He shrugs and looks at Cas like he’s totally unaffected. Like he dares Cas to argue with him on that. Cas doesn’t.

Cas didn’t say he loves Dean, so Dean doesn’t have to think about that, and the demon was lying, so Dean doesn’t have to think about Hell. This is how this works, how Dean works.

He hasn’t told anyone, barely has admitted it to himself, that he had been half-certain he would go to Hell when he died, at _least_ for things he had done while he was there. Bleeding out in that barn, he had actually made his peace with it. So, if he lets himself wonder, just for a moment, why he was let into Heaven in the first place – that’s his own business.

But it doesn’t matter. Dean’s not in Hell, or Heaven, he’s here. He doesn’t have to think about any of this. He wills Cas not to make him talk about it.

“We have to tell Sam about what the demon said about Rowena,” Cas eventually gives in. When he leans back, surrenders, it doesn’t feel like a triumph. Dean keeps driving.

*

And Cas doesn’t bring it up again. Any of it.

They evict the demon, save the day, and he says nothing. They spend hours side by side, almost a full day on the road, altogether. They waste a night at another motel, Cas seated at the table as Dean tries to not have nightmares in a lone Queen bed.

 _Nada_.

Just Dean’s thoughts, knocking around in his head like pinballs, trying to remember what exactly Cas had said, if he’d really said it.

The upsetting alternative to all this, of course, is that it’s just Dean’s faulty brain making things up.

Which is kind of pathetic, but hey – pride’s for suckers. Plus, Dean had gotten maybe four hours of sleep the night prior, which means one thing to a twenty-something and another thing entirely to a man more than, Christ, _twice_ that age. Dean being sleep-deprived and hallucinating love confessions almost makes sense. It’s at least more believable than the alternative – a possibility which Dean isn’t even comfortable considering.

But, while Cas never brings it up, Dean just wishes that that was enough reason to dismiss it – because he _still_ can’t get it out of his head.

Cas has said those three words a few times since Dean’s known him. Cas dragging Dean and Sam down into a hug when all he could dream about was flowers and fruit. Cas bleeding black and whimpering out a confession like it dirtied them all for him to say it out loud.

The way Cas talks about Jack, about Claire, about humanity in the abstract and in the intimate. He’s said it with and without words time and time again, with – in Dean’s opinion – varying levels of sincerity.

Dean still hasn’t even _touched_ the night that Cas summoned the Empty.

It was the worst day of his life, and Dean has had quite a few. He had nearly been chased out of his skull by the terror and confusion of the hours that followed. By the grief, almost gleefully taking up residence beneath Dean’s ribs, bigger than his body and threatening to split him apart. It’s a testament that Dean remembers as much of Cas’s speech as he does. Some things are hard to forget.

He’s had nightmares about it. Still does some nights. Little snippets where there’s a sinking feeling in his gut heavy as lead, terribly familiar. He held onto as much as he could, tried not to rewrite it in his mind, since he had honestly believed that that was all he would ever have of Cas for the rest of his miserable life. And, it wasn’t like he had been wrong about that, either – the rest of his life had been pretty damn short.

But, even remembering the words Cas said doesn’t mean Dean understands them. He still doesn’t know what Cas meant, when he said he wanted what he couldn’t have. Doesn’t know what Cas means, when he says love. What Cas _wants_. _If_ he can want.

Cas hasn’t brought up that night and Dean’s content enough to let it rest. There’s a lot to unpack and Dean’s on the road too often to start.

Except Cas, or Dean’s stupid subconscious, wants to bring it up again. Something is nudging at that night the way a tongue finds a mouth sore. Either Cas wants to say it, or _Dean_ wants him to. It feels like too much and like nothing at all.

But Dean’s good at packing up, moving on. He’s done it before. That’s all he ever does. He still hasn’t told Sam about why the Empty took Cas, and doesn’t plan to, doesn’t want to deal with Sam’s teary, soulful eyes over the tragedy that is Dean Winchester.

Sam’s so grossly happy with Eileen, and Dean’s pleased as punch for them, but it’s that kind of smugly self-satisfied _pitying_ happiness of a perfect couple – looking at you to silently ask what part is so broken in you that you can’t have what they have. It’s a good question, but Dean’s sick of trying to answer it.

Dean’s few attempts at long-term have always gone down in flames. Dean doesn’t know if he’s built for something like that. And he hadn’t needed it, really, when there were enough family and friends around to keep him ... busy, fulfilled. And yeah, Cas has been part of that.

But, if Dean’s out here hallucinating, _daydreaming_ , that Cas is casually dropping love confessions, Dean’s _got_ to get out of this bunker and try the way Sam’s tried, and succeeded, with Eileen. He’s gotta do _something._

Dean is putzing around in the kitchen, planning for dinner so that he can do something with his hands, but it’s a distracted preparation. For one, he’s midway through setting up the glass dish for the lasagna he’s planning to make before he realizes that they’re out of milk. Sam, oscillating between vegetarianism and veganism, never bothers to buy new jugs on the off-chance that Dean might turn over a new leaf. Fat chance.

All that to say, he needs to ride into town. As he passes by the war table, he sees Cas curled over a laptop deep in thought with his free hand tangled in Miracle’s blond fur. Dean’s instinct is to ask Cas along before he manages to change tack.

“Hey, I’m going to the store, you want anything?”

“No, I’m fine.” Cas hardly looks up from his computer.

Dude might drink coffee, but he’s still an angel and doesn’t necessarily need to – Dean just figures it’s nice to ask and Cas usually seems to appreciate when he does. Dean knocks idly on the stair rail and half-waves to Cas on his way.

Idly, Cas adds, “Drive safe. I love you.”

Dean is out the door before he can question it, but later on his drive when the light turns green someone has to honk for him to notice.


	2. Chapter 2

They’ve been looking up witch lore to see if they can get a bead on Rowena, searching through Sam’s catalogue for tips on contacting her with methods more lowkey than yanking her out of Hell with a summoning, especially since Sam doesn’t think tried and true things would work on her anyhow.

Sam and the other Charlie figured out some sort of code which automatically converts scanned text to ... well _text_ , but there are still bugs to work out. Which is where Dean apparently comes in.

While Sam’s lookin’ for stuff on ‘ _witches_ ’ Dean’s lookin’ up ‘ _vvitches_ ’. Or he’s meant to be, anyway. He’s mostly pressing the enter key and thinking about what he wants to say to his brother.

Dean has spent long enough staring dry-mouthed at his computer screen, fiddling one-handedly with the label peeling off his beer bottle, pretending that he’s approaching a casual conversation.

“So,” Dean chances, taking a swig of his beer to wet his throat.

Sam’s ... well. Sam’s got skills Dean doesn’t. Dude was nearly a lawyer once. He’s actively in a successful relationship with a human woman. He’s smarter, can bench more, and he actually _likes_ talking about feelings. _Dean’s_ feelings, at any rate.

Dean is not a fan of asking for help, but at this stage he can admit that he probably needs it. He wishes it didn’t have to come from Sam but all of Dean’s other friends are skyward, apart from Cas and Eileen – and he can’t talk to either of them. Cas is too close to the situation, and Eileen is too far removed from it.

Eileen is awesome but she hasn’t been around to witness the grand mess that is Dean and Cas’s history, though Dean would put down money that Sam has whined to her about it all before.

Still, considering it, Dean finds something incredibly attractive about the prospect of sliding this conversation onto the backburner one last time. Dean rationalizes, it probably _would_ be better to talk to Eileen about this, she’d be an objective, neutral party – and not half as judgmental as Sam. Dean could wait for Eileen and Cas to return, maybe ply Eileen with her favourite meal, get her to promise not to breathe (or sign) a word to anyone else, and –

“Did you say something?” Sam speaks up distractedly, eyes still fixed to his laptop.

There’s no point in waiting. Dean has been choking on this for days, working up the nerve to talk to Sam then shying away again with the dependability of high and low tide. But, Dean’s been biting bullets his whole life, no sense in hesitating now over something that’s been a dozen years in the making.

“Cas keeps telling me he loves me.”

The words come out jumbled, not casual like Dean hoped. But, they’re free now, and Sam’s fingers go still on his laptop.

Silence. Then ...

“ _And_?”

It’s not really a helpful response, because Dean already doesn’t know how to feel about the situation, so this is just another thing Dean’s uncertain about.

“ _And_ it’s weird!” Dean explains, successfully ripping some of his label. “Right?” His face feels hot. He scoffs. Miracle stirs beneath the table at Dean’s feet where he’s been lying, but otherwise doesn’t move an inch. “I mean, does he say stuff like that to you?”

For a moment, fear steals over him, at the concept that Cas turned over a new leaf, taken on some unspoken New Years Resolution, that Dean had misunderstood him, misunderstood this. “Does he say that to _everyone?_ ”

Sam’s prissy face is reassuring.

“He’s _your_ best friend,” he reminds Dean. It’s kind of a relief that, as smart as Sam is, he’s dumb about this stuff. “And you know. He’s always been like this. You guys have a ‘ _profound bond’_ , remember?” He pitches his voice into a Cas-like growl. It does not make Dean feel any better.

Then, Sam settles back, leaning away from his laptop in his seat. He sighs, running a hand through his hair to smooth it down, genuinely considering Dean’s feelings in a way Dean’s simultaneously grateful for and bothered by.

“How often does he say it?”

“Dunno. Twice.”

It’s almost pathetic, because two times doesn’t _sound_ like much. Dean bets that for normal, well-adjusted people two times is _nothing_ , an afterthought, and those three words are things you could toss to your Starbucks barista at Christmastime. But Dean has never been normal, and two times _feels_ incredibly heavy. Three times, if you count the day that Cas died.

“If it makes you uncomfortable,” Sam says patiently, raising his thin condescending eyebrows, “you should just talk to him about it.” Leave it to Sam to think the solution to talking about feelings is more talk about feelings.

“I’m _not_ gonna bring it up,” Dean says quickly, bringing his beer to his lips for another swig.

“Dude, what are,” Sam grumbles, waving his hands. “Then why are you bringing it up with me?”

“Forget about it.” The beer nearly goes down the wrong pipe and Dean barely manages to suppress a cough.

“I – Dean!” Sam’s fretting. “Listen, if it really makes you feel that weird, he’ll get it. We all obviously care about each other, so if you’d rather he didn’t say it out loud this often I’m sure he’d stop.” There’s no way.

“I don’t want to make the guy feel bad,” Dean invents, because as much as it’s getting to his head – he doesn’t _exactly_ want it to stop now.

“... _I_ could even tell him for you,” Sam offers. “He won’t even know you told me.” Lawyered up with puppy-eyes, Sam probably would get away with it too.

“It’s _fine_. And like you said, it’s not that weird,” Dean barks, though he’s not even sure that Sam even said that, just that he feels like it’s something Sam would say, or _should_ say.

Sam looks like he’s about to argue, but there must be something desperate about how Dean’s talking or what he’s saying because Sam’s mouth slowly shuts.

“Right,” Sam allows.

Dean briefly considers telling Sam ... telling Sam all of it. Well, not _all_ of it. The CliffsNotes, the headers.

It’s why Dean came to Sam about this. They grew up in the same car, lost the same number of people, they’ve been damaged in the same ways. Sam _knows_ how jagged ‘ _I-love-you_ ’s can be, but Dean hadn’t expected him to be _that_ empathetic. Sure, those three words are tough to swallow, to speak, but it’s something Dean should be able to weather, right? For Cas?

Dean doubts Sam actually knows what Cas really means when he says he loves Dean. Sam prides himself on being observant, in touch with his feelings, but honestly Dean’s baby brother can get pretty far up his own ass about things. But then – Dean’s no expert on Cas’s feelings either.

“I just didn’t think ...” Dean says, voice embarrassingly weak. He finds another bullet to bite. “D’you think angels can love?”

Sam scoffs. “Really?”

And it’s stupid, but it _hurts_ , the way Sam says it – like Dean’s an idiot for thinking about it. But Dean’s always felt like ... _if_ angels loved, if they felt anything at all, it wasn’t good for them. It went against the programming. Foreign appliances plugged into American voltage, burning up from the inside out.

Even hearing the thoughts in his own head, it sounds like a cheap excuse to not take what Cas says seriously, but how much could Dean expect Cas to really break free? Dean knows about limitations better than anyone. You can push yourself pretty damn far, but you can’t change where you come from. It wouldn’t be fair for Dean to expect Cas to succeed, or even try.

“You’ve seen him and Jack,” Sam argues. “That’s love. One _hundred_ percent.”

“Yeah, but that’s _Jack_ ,” Dean says quietly. Jack and Claire, they’re different. They’re his kids, and Cas is the most loving father Dean has ever known.

“ _And_ you know what Cas has done for us,” Sam says. “I mean, he’s _died_ for us.” Dean knows that too well.

Sam doesn’t know what Dean’s really asking about.

“Yeah, I know, I _know_ , I just,” Dean says, scrubbing his hand against his forehead. He doesn’t know.

Sam gives Dean a small, sympathetic smirk. “Not used to words of affirmation, Dean?”

“God, shut the hell up man,” Dean chuckles, uncomfortable relief sparking at the subject change, then bubbling over. Gratefully, he takes the out that’s been offered.

“For what it’s worth, _I wuv you too_ , big brother.”

“ _Go to hell_.”

Dean aims a scrap of his torn-off beer label at Sam and is gratified when it lands in his brother’s stupid hair.

*

Coming back from the dead has always been weird. Each time, Dean struggles to find his sea legs.

After Hell, it had taken Dean too long to feel clean again. To get the taste of blood and sulfur out of his throat.

Even Heaven shuts down humanity in some sense. It blunts feelings into harmless, monotone things – Dean would have expected he’d be oversensitive back on Earth, but instead he felt jetlagged. Scraped out.

All this to say, romance was never at the top of Dean’s pyramid after the afterlife. With time, things changed, and honestly sex after Hell had helped bring him back into his body the way few things could.

So, taking his cue from the man he was over a decade ago, Dean finds himself lying back on his bed, drinking a beer, half-way through setting up a new dating profile.

Over the years he’s settled into some rinse-repeat pattern of these accounts, making and remaking them, usually bookended by one tragic death or another. And now, clearly, he needs to do _something_ , and it might as well be this. He’s not ready to become an angel’s heterosexual life partner, and that’s the barrel he’s staring down after a few more ‘ _I-love-you’s_ ’.

It’s just that picking up women at bars has always been easier for Dean than this online dating thing. Maybe because if you meet someone at a bar, it’s not a date. Now, fewer women around Dean’s age are available and, those that are, tend to want something more from him – commitment or compensation.

Plus, as he gets older – and this is humiliating – Dean finds he doesn’t even need sex all that much. There’s really not a lot he can’t take care of himself at home and it’s getting to the point where it’s usually not worth the drive. Going out on the prowl for someone unattached and willing to make a bad decision for the night just makes him feel pathetic, and he doesn’t want to meet anyone in town either – too afraid of running into them again.

Sex has its own pros and cons, organic and unpredictable, most women unsure about what to do with guys like him. Even the cons can be exciting. But relationships – _relationships_ are another animal entirely. Dean knows he’s shown up God and the Devil, but relationships are still terrifying – Dean has never gotten the hang of them.

And to be fair, Dean doesn’t know that he wants to, either. He definitely doesn’t _need_ a relationship. But he _should_ want sex, and he does – half losing his mind out of loneliness, horniness, or some unfortunate combination of the two. And it would be good, even, for Dean to find somebody for a season. He knows that.

That somebody just can’t be Cas.

 _Not_ that that’s what Cas is offering. If he’s offering anything.

As nice as it feels to hear that someone loves him, Dean’s decided that Cas doesn’t really know what he’s saying, how it comes off. But, Cas’s sweet nothings still remind Dean, as much as Sam’s heart eyes around Eileen, that Dean’s missing something. It’s just not a hollow Dean could ever ask Cas to fill. Dean’s _got_ to leave this bunker.

At forty-two, Dean knows his options are slim. He wonders if he could stomach the dating game now, but over four decades Dean’s never known himself to change for the better. Instead of picking out his profile picture, Dean wonders what the point of leaving Heaven was, if he’s still not capable of growth or change or whatever you’re supposed to do when you don’t have to do anything else.

“Hello Dean,” Cas speaks up from nowhere, standing at the doorway to Dean’s bedroom.

“ _Hey_ ,” Dean replies quickly, instinctively, sitting up so fast he nearly spills his beer.

Cas knocked, but Dean hadn’t noticed him until Cas was all the way peeking his head inside Dean’s room. And Dean feels almost naked, sitting on his bed in front of Cas now, after all they’ve been through, and his phone burns guiltily in his hand.

“Sam was wondering what you wanted for dinner, he wants to order food from a new Greek restaurant,” Cas explains, still hovering at the door, then his eyes narrow curiously at the way Dean’s clutching at his phone. “What are you doing?”

“Nothin’,” Dean says. But shit, there’s really no point to lying, if half the reason he’s doing this is because he wants to warn Cas off, or at least figure out where he stands. “Thinking about setting up a dating profile.”

Cas, to his credit, doesn’t look affected either way.

“Don’t know if I will though, seems like too much of a hassle,” Dean continues on, almost rambling now. As though it’s a hassle to set up a profile like he’s done probably half a dozen times before. 

Cas still isn’t engaging. “So, Greek food is fine?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says. “You ever think about using one of those?”

“One of _what_.” Cas looks perplexed, annoyed. Talking to Cas can sometimes be like yanking out your own teeth one by one.

“Uh, dating apps,” Dean mumbles the explanation. “You know. _Meeting_ people.” He says it almost like a joke, almost like he’s disgusted by the very thought. He is about ready to eat his own shoe if it means he’ll stop saying weird shit in front of Cas.

“I uh, tried once,” Cas admits, and his posture slackens in Dean’s doorway. Dean barely manages to gulp down his surprise.

“After ... Jack died,” Cas clarifies.

It goes unspoken, but Dean can read between the lines. Cas is talking about the time Dean’s anger had been so cruel that even Cas couldn’t stand it anymore. He’d buttoned up his coat and let the door hit him on the way out.

“I was ... adrift, on the road a lot, hunting. Claire helped me set up an account.” Cas smiles a little at that, some fond memory. It makes a vice form in Dean’s chest.

Dean had taken out all the anger he felt over Mary’s death onto Cas. Cas hadn’t been blameless, but Dean had been angry at the consequences, not the mistake, and it hadn’t been fair. Cas’s mistake of believing in someone, in loving his family, was something Dean had always taken advantage of, especially then.

He had just been so angry, and Jack and God weren’t around to blame, but Cas had been there, for a time – choosing Jack over Dean and Sam, again, willing to take Dean’s anger, again, up until the point he left. Cas finally leaving had given Dean the empty and revolting satisfaction of fitting a piece in place in an ugly puzzle.

“I met a few ... _people_ , and ... some of them were very charming,” Cas goes on. “But, I think ... I already know everyone I care to know.”

Dean’s heart misses a beat. He scrambles to understand what Cas just said.

“I mean,” he stumbles, because ‘ _everyone I care to know_ ’ couldn’t possibly extend to Dean. “You’ve been around the block, really, for what – ten years?”

“Almost thirteen,” Cas says, that same small smile on his lips. It looks good around his eyes. “Who’s counting?”

And this is getting a little ridiculous. Sure, Cas loves him, or whatever. And Cas had told Dean, back in Purgatory, that he wouldn’t have left that night if Dean had asked him to stay. But the entire point is laid out so plain here – Cas _shouldn’t_ stay. And, if he loves Dean, he shouldn’t do that either.

“Just mean, plenty of fish in the sea,” Dean goes on, intent on digging his own grave, “and you haven’t met a lot of them.”

“I have history with certain fish,” Cas replies. Stubborn.

Dean kind of gets it. You can want tons of people, but it can’t erase what you want from one person in particular.

He thinks about how far he could really push Cas, if he wanted. He’s done it before. Been so angry, so cruel and callous, that Cas ditched out of self-respect, out of self-preservation. In many ways, Cas deserves an out.

Cas isn’t perfect, he’s made his mistakes, but so have they all, and he hasn’t screwed over Dean half as badly as Dean has so consistently, _needlessly_ , done to him and anyone else that let Dean into their life.

And probably, if Dean really pushed back against all Cas’s nice words and insisted that Cas get back on the horse and leave Dean the hell alone, Cas would. That’s what Cas has been doing for a long time now, apparently. Hell, he’s got practice.

But, Dean’s a greedy bastard, and the thought of Cas with other people drives him a little crazy, too.

Dean half wants to know every single detail about the people Cas met up with. The _men_ , because Dean hadn’t missed how Cas had hesitated over the word ‘ _people_ ’, and Dean’s got to face it at some point – every woman Dean had ever thrown in Cas’s direction had had her time wasted. Worse still, that’s probably a small reason why Dean did it anyhow.

But he also half _never_ wants to hear Cas talk about that time again, lonely and painfully sharp and entirely Dean’s fault. And it’s torture to wonder what those guys did with Cas, if they’d touched him – if Cas wanted that, if he _didn’t_ – if they’d made him laugh, made him happy in the long shadow Dean cast.

Dean’s at a junction, here, at a crossroads. Things could go either way.

“You miss being on the road?” Dean asks. “Hunting?”

Cas blinks.

“Or, are you gonna stick around?” Dean’s voice sounds like it’s never been used, rough, breaking like static on the shakier words.

Cas seems to consider Dean.

“I have nowhere to be right now,” he says, and he does something Dean can’t ignore. He steps forward into Dean’s bedroom and sticks his hands in his pockets, as unassuming as a saint. “Jack doesn’t need me in Heaven. There’s no battle to be fought.”

“No MacGuffin to chase after,” Dean agrees. No God, no Devil, no responsibilities.

“I suppose I could look up another hunt; that probably wasn’t the last of the demons,” Cas offers, angling himself so he’s looking over his shoulder at the doorway. “Tell Sam Greek food is fine. And you can ... finish setting up your ... dating profile.”

“Nah,” Dean says quickly.

And he does something stupid, by getting off his bed and walking over to Cas, closing the distance between them and the door behind Cas. It’s _very_ stupid. It puts them very close.

“You should kick back, awhile,” he says, mouth running with no input from his brain.

“Oh?” Cas says, casual as anything, but his voice cracks.

This close, Dean can see that Cas’s eyes are so dark they’re almost totally black.

Cas swallows, and Dean decides that angels _can_ want after all. Dean tosses his phone behind him on the bed; the women of America can wait.

This, whatever this is, has been waiting in the wings for a long time. Dean’s not going to waste any more time if it’s what Cas wants. Cas is apparently in this, considered the whole world and still settled on Dean, and Dean’s not going to give him the chance to take it back.

He gets Cas by the tie and tugs, and Cas follows easily, crowding Dean like a broken dam until Dean just about flips him on the bed and regains the upper hand. Cas doesn’t seem to mind, looking up at Dean, lips gaping, eyes shining with quiet excitement.

Dean finally gets the damn trench coat off.

He unthreads the tie, undoes the buttons at Cas’s throat, and leans down to chance a kiss on his Adam’s apple, mapping down the rough stubble on his neck to the vee of his collarbones. Cas is wearing the cologne Claire bought him a few Christmases ago, and he smells good, he always does. Dean lands a quick bite that makes Cas straighten up, gasping. Instead of freezing over how this is the first time they’ve done something like this, Dean does it again.

Dean doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do love. And he doesn’t know much about what Cas feels, what Cas wants or expects, but he knows _this_. He could do this blindfolded.

It makes things a thousand times easier that this, sex, is near-automatic. Dean is no renaissance man, but of the things he knows to do he prides himself on being damn good at them.

He urges Cas to lay back on his bed, letting out a shaky sigh as he goes, and Dean unhooks his buckle, undoes his zipper, pulls his pants down to his thighs.

Dean figures it’s best this way. No expectation to perform, or well, _not_ perform the way Dean thought he would if him and Cas ever got together. They don’t even have to kiss. This is it. This is simple. Because, sinking to his knees, Dean suspects he’s not up for anything else tonight.

“Dean,” Cas speaks up, then, and his voice cuts in like sharp static on a midnight radio lull. “Are you –”

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean advises, because if there’s a nice way to say it, he doesn’t know it. “Just enjoy this, alright?” He feels the muscles in Cas’s thighs stiffen and flex beneath his hands.

“Dean, if you don’t want to do this –” Cas starts again, because he can’t let anything be easy.

“I’d _leave_ ,” Dean says.

He hates the way his voice shakes on the last word.

But, he loves the way Cas’s thighs unwind. Implicitly, it tells him that if Cas didn’t want to do this, he’d leave, too. Dean just wishes he really knew what they were saying ‘ _yes_ ’ to. There aren’t even terms and conditions to skip over.

Dean presses forward.

The truth is that it’s never been that he doesn’t _want_ Cas. He’s wanted Cas ever since, ever since _always_. Getting threatened by the hand of God in Bobby’s kitchen. Getting saved by him in Hell. Every time Cas stepped too close into his space, or put himself on the line for Dean. Dean’s wanted him for so long he’s trained to steel himself against it.

And this is amazing to the point where it doesn’t feel real. Like winning the lottery or getting in a car accident. He never thought he’d ever have anyone in here, in his bedroom, and for a moment Dean almost wants to usher the both of them to Cas’s room, so that when, _if_ , things go sideways Dean can still have this space. But the truth is, he’s spent so many nights here thinking about Cas, praying to him, dreaming about him and crying over him, it doesn’t matter. He’s here now and even if, _when_ , Cas leaves Dean, Dean will never be free of him anyway.

Dean’s hands strip Cas bare, slide up Cas’s thighs to press him down into the bed as Dean quickly remembers how to do this, then does it.

Cas is only half-hard when they start, but it’s still more than Dean ever expected, and Dean can feel the situation change second by second.

The startled noise Cas lets out moves into breathless pleasure, as Dean leans his back into this, letting his mouth give, saliva pool on his tongue. Dean’s probably been in this position more times than Cas has been on the other end.

With few exceptions, this had always been business, not pleasure, strictly transactional even if money wasn’t changing hands. Not anything more or less than that. There’s been guys over the years where Dean had enjoyed this with, occasions where there was nothing to be gained from it.

Always temporary, transient, _never_ something Dean ever genuinely considered pursuing seriously, especially when it had taken Dean so long to even get to a place where he feels half-comfortable admitting that he likes this, that there’s some vacancy in him, some sick gaping maw that can’t be filled by any number of people – though he tries. That he likes men. That he likes Cas.

The strange shame Dean had always felt about this is about a thousand times worse when you’re thinking about an angel. It’s sacrilegious and sexy, but Cas was always so righteous that Dean could never get the guilt out of his mouth, thinking about him.

Cas wants this, though. And hell, he deserves it. He died for Dean, he’s died for him _so many times_ , and he’s saved Dean’s hide more times than Dean can count and in ways Dean can’t even speak about. The least Dean can do is give him a decent blowjob.

But when Cas reaches down and frames Dean’s jaw with his hands, Dean has to actively try not to instinctively flinch away from it.

The muscle memories associated with this, and between them are usually violent – even when Cas is the one healing him. Dean tries to disguise the glitch in his reaction by working harder, distracting himself too with careful breaths through his nose.

“Dean?” Cas breathes out, and there’s a question in there somewhere, which means he’s thinking and Dean’s not working hard enough.

It’s difficult for Dean to get out of his head about this, to just focus on the task at hand. He knows it would make Cas uncomfortable to know that Dean’s not all here, which goes against everything Dean’s trying to do. And this _is_ Cas.

Dean steals a look at him, up his white shirt, ruffled, half-buttoned, at the flush at his neck, the love bite bruising at his collar. He does it because people like it when Dean looks up at them like this. But, it also does Dean good to see that it’s Cas that’s looking back down at him.

Cas has got this air about him – split between apprehensive and excited, gently concerned and flushed, turned on. He looks _good_. It makes it easier. It makes it more difficult.

Cas is not like anyone else Dean’s ever been with. And Dean doesn’t know what to do with all this talk of love, but he knows enough about Cas to know that, if he’s gonna let Dean down, he’s going to be kind about it at least.

Dean moves off Cas for a moment, mouth salivating and swollen, to ask, “Somethin’ the matter, Cas?” before he slides his way back onto Cas’s dick. Cas _whimpers._

This is crazy, but this is good. _Cas_ is good, hands reaching for Dean’s neck, worrying the hair at his nape, the way his thighs twitch, muscles buckling beneath Dean’s palms, hips wanting to jerk forward even while he holds himself back for Dean.

If Cas wanted, he could do anything to Dean, and at this point, with the embers of arousal burning a hole in Dean’s gut for the quiet grunts and suppressed moans Cas is making, Dean would let him. So, it says something that Cas wants this, wants whatever Dean will give him, and Dean is going to give him his best.

Dean knows it was a dick move, to hear Cas tell him he loves him, then go immediately trawling through dating apps. Dean’s awful, and he knows this isn’t helping but, in many ways, it’s a lot easier to listen to Cas whimper and moan than it is to hear him say that he loves Dean. This at least feels _earned_.

But, this also isn’t a selfless act. It’s scratching some itch inside of Dean, too, to have Cas like this. And maybe at some point they could’ve talked instead, but Dean’s in the rhythm now, and he could swear that angels taste different somehow, and Cas’s thighs keep flexing on either side of Dean, hips jerking, and his hand is on Dean’s jaw, tugging on his hair, and it’s shamefully hot, actually, to feel Cas get harder and wetter in his mouth until it’s over.

It takes a long time for Cas to get there. It finishes messy. Dean pulls off, swallows some but misses most, not that Cas seems to mind. He comes almost completely silently, some choked-back shout, hands still and secure on Dean, holding him like a relic.

Dean takes a moment to lean his face against Cas’s thigh. Listens to them both find their breath again, throats hoarse.

Distantly, the world is going on without them.

It’s hot like a sauna in Dean’s room. It smells like sex, like Cas, and Dean’s warm all over, sweating under his collar. He makes it good for Cas, and cleans him up gently, and his knees and back only twinge a little bit from kneeling on the floor for so long.

Somewhere on Dean’s bed, his cellphone buzzes. Reality starts to creep in like a leak in the ceiling.

Cas looks down at Dean then, catches his eye, and stares at him – flustered and out of breath even though he’s an angel, and like he’s in awe of Dean. All of Cas’s siblings had only ever looked at Dean like he was something at the bottom of their shoe. It doesn’t seem right.

It’s like Dean’s gotten doused with a bucket of water. Humiliating, like a dog tossed in a river, Dean feels small, tail tucked between his legs. The easy part is over with, and it didn’t fix anything about the way Cas looks at Dean, the way Dean surely looks at him.

“Gotta brush my teeth,” Dean explains quickly, before Cas can do or say anything else stupid, like tell Dean any more personal revelations or kiss him. Dean scrambles to stand, reaches over to grab his phone.

Cas nods. Not offended but still obviously tired of Dean’s bullshit. It doesn’t matter. Dean hobbles off to the bathroom.

He’s just turned on enough to walk uncomfortably, but not enough to be able to do anything else. He honestly hadn’t thought that far.

Dean thinks he’s supposed to have figured something out, that they were supposed to have come to some sort of arrangement or agreement, but the bitter taste won’t leave no matter how hard Dean scrubs.

Sam texted about dinner, probably because Cas has been gone way too long for a simple question. Dean’s jittery, has about a million stupid responses lining up in his head, so he shoves his phone back into his pocket, out of sight. He doesn’t feel hungry, at any rate.

When Dean gets back to his bedroom, Cas has made himself comfortable on the side of the mattress Dean rarely occupies.

He has rezipped his pants, buttoned up his shirt some, and he’s plucked a book off Dean’s shelf and is thumbing through it. Vonnegut. But, it’s not unobvious what they’ve just done, Cas is flushed and smug and roughed up on Dean’s bedsheets.

There must be something on Dean’s face, because Cas sits up, drops the smirk.

“If you’d prefer, I can leave,” he offers, easy as anything, eyebrow quirked.

He’s so used to Dean treating him like shit. Dean can’t help it, either.

“No, nah you,” Dean says. “You knock yourself out. I’m just gonna ... research, in the kitchen.” Normally, Dean’s excuses are less pathetic, but he can barely think right now.

Cas gets to his feet and paces over to Dean, who has to suffocate the urge for flight. Cas is owed that much.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Cas says softly. “I don’t ... _need_ sex from you.” Which is _not_ what Dean wants to hear, especially when his jaw’s still kinda sore from it.

Dean clenches his stupid jaw and lets the intensity of his disappointment, his anger, and confusion, or whatever the hell it is, he doesn’t know just knows that it _sucks_ , wash through him.

He shuts his eyes. He’s not gonna get mad at Cas again, not over things Cas can’t help. He knew Cas didn’t want him, not really.

He can take comfort, at least, in the fact that there’s no regret in Cas’s tone, Dean doesn’t know how he’d be able to handle it if there was.

And Dean already knew that Cas is ... well, angels are different. _Cas_ is different. Sex probably doesn’t mean all that much to him, but it’s all Dean knows how to offer. This is not how Dean wanted their first time to go, though he still can’t offer anything else and Dean gets the feeling that doing anything else would just be him shovelling a deeper grave for them.

Dean tries to console himself that at least Cas didn’t push him off, but now he wonders helplessly if that would’ve been better. Cas didn’t want this after all.

“I wanted to say,” Cas speaks up, formally, earnestly, “thank you.”

He reaches up slowly and places a hand on Dean’s forehead, just into his hairline. Dean doesn’t flinch this time, but he can’t look at Cas either. He knows angels can sense things. He hopes Cas is not picking up on the humiliation and fear rotting in Dean’s throat.

“And ... I love you,” Cas says, just as softly, just as honestly as ever before.

And he holds his hand there, thumb gently swiping along some wrinkle on Dean’s forehead, like he’s healing him. Maybe he is; Dean could swear his stupid knees hurt a little less, the twinge in his throat is just that touch less humiliating.

And Cas doesn’t try to kiss Dean or get him to say anything. He smiles with something sad, but not despairing, and tells Dean he will see him later before he leaves the bedroom.

Dean doesn’t understand Cas at all. He thinks he should feel like shit about this, but Cas _still_ managed to ease the ache in Dean’s chest.

Maybe it’s something about the way Dean might have screwed this up beyond repair, but they’re still standing, Cas isn’t injured, and he _still_ is saying that he loves Dean. Dean doesn’t know what this all means, just knows that it means a lot.

Dean doesn’t go to the kitchen, he can’t risk seeing Sam. He grabs a shower, half-heartedly jerks off. Afterwards, he texts Sam Greek food sounds good, then spends the time between that and dinner hiding from Cas in the library, aimlessly researching.

But, after dinner, when he’s less scrambled, he still hangs around pretending he’s got stuff to do, afraid of how he’ll feel if he goes back to his room and Cas is there. How he’ll feel when Cas isn’t. And his thoughts keep drifting back to the way Cas felt in his mouth, and the way Cas’s words fall on Dean like powdered sugar.


End file.
